when the clock strikes two
by AnExhibition
Summary: Bridget visits Franky in hospital. 3x12.


You're cuffed to the hospital bed when Bridget comes in wearing that swagger which makes the young cop in the corner sit up and take notice.

"Bridget Westfall." She introduces herself as your psychologist as she holds her hand out. He stands, towering over her tiny frame. He shakes her hand like he's been expecting her. Her hair is out, and she looks as fuckable as she always does. You hate the cop more than you already do. He hasn't given you a chance to make yourself at least half fucking presentable. You're not wearing any eyeliner, and hospital gowns are really not a good look on you, you think.

"I'm might sit with her for a while," she tells him. Then, she looks at you.

You swallow.

He leaves the room, eyes trained on his phone. The door closes behind him.

She stands at the end of the bed. The corners of her mouth curl upwards.

"You're a bit of a hard one to find in here."

You know you look like shit, but when she smiles at you like that, you don't even fucking care.

"What? Couldn't find the Prisoner in ward 3 room 34? Thought you had a degree, Gidge."

You wink at her.

Her lips part, as though she's about to bite back like she always does in that calm, centred, Bridget Westfall way, but a nurse comes in. You hear something about checking your obs, but you miss the rest because your ears started ringing when Bridget moved out of the nurse's way and decided to take off that hot _fucking leather_ jacket for something to do. She's wearing a black t-shirt which clings to her tits just right, but you try not to focus on that. It's hard to focus on anything when she decides to take a seat on the corner of your bed. You can feel the heat of her thigh against your right foot. Of all the chairs in the room, she chooses the end of your hospital bed and grins at you like you've been domestic partners for the better part of a decade.

You can't stop looking at her.

Her eyes seem bluer.

Her hair looks messier.

Abashedly, she looks down at the white cotton sheet covering your lower body, and picks at a loose thread.

A pink tinge spreads to the neckline of her t-shirt.

She's really fucking hot, and you've got it worse than you thought.

You knew she turned you on, but this, this _thing_ is different. You haven't felt like this since Erica. And this is more than Erica, that's for sure. _Bridget_ is more than Erica. In the beginning, you thought they were the same. Kinda. Bridget was a little more adamant, a little more relaxed. A lot dyke-ier. Erica was younger, blonder. Probably wilder. They were different, sure, but lying in your cell at night, thinking about blond hair between your legs, months apart, they both got you off. The difference is that Erica put you in the slot for five weeks, and Bridget is sitting at the end of your hospital bed looking at you like she wants you and she knows it.

You like that.

You like that she fucking _knows it_.

The cuff of the blood pressure monitor blows up on your arm.

"That's odd," your nurse clicks her tongue. "Blood pressure is up since last time."

You shrug, pretending not to know why.

"How's your breathing?"

"Fine."

"Cough for me?"

You do. Your throat feels like it's on fire.

"How's your throat?"

"All good."

The redhead smiles down at you. "All done then."You remember her now, from early last night. Ally. You'd thought she was cute. Now, you just want her to leave so you can talk to Bridget about something real.

As she unwraps the blood pressure cuff from your arm, the peel of Velcro echoes around the room. You shift your foot on the bed, and poke Bridget's thigh with your big toe. She rolls her eyes.

Ally takes off, and you're left alone again.

"She's hot," you hear yourself say, your eyes on the door.

"Is she?" Bridget asks casually. "I didn't notice."

You're self sabotaging again.

"She was real interested in my tats last night. I reckon she wants me."

You wish that you would just shut the fuck up.

Bridget ignores you.

"You're out tomorrow. Out of here, out of Wentworth."

You wave your hands in celebration, and the metal of your cuffs jingles against the raised bed frame. "Let me take you down to the hospital cafe to celebrate. I'll buy you a latte. We can call it a date." You wink.

Bridget looks down at the cuffs, briefly. She smirks. And there's the huge fucking difference between Gidget and Erica. Bridget laughs it off, as if the whole idea of this woman with smarts cuffed to a hospital bed is as silly as it is temporary. Erica never learned the definition of temporary, especially when it came to the divide between you.

"I think we can find time for something like that later."

You raise an eyebrow. Your cheeks hurt from smiling. "Can we?"

"I heard you saved Doreen's baby."

"Can't leave these things to the screws, can I? Fuckin' useless. I take it you heard about Ferguson?"

Bridget nods. "I've spoken to Ms Bennett. However," she drawls, "I was more focused on the fact that you managed to get yourself locked in and then escape from a burning building."

That voice.

"What can I say? I am woman, hear me roar."

She chuckles, and moves up the bed. You shift slightly to make room for her.

"How are you really feeling?"

You lick your lips. Your gaze falls to her hand, pressed into the bed, an inch from your thigh.

"Like shit."

She smiles sympathetically. "Figured that."

You reach out for her fingers.

She doesn't even hesitate.

Her hand is warm in yours. Smaller. For all that subtle butch bravado she walks around with, the way she holds your hand is so fucking gentle.

You haven't felt like this in so long.

She looks to the door, and then back at you.

The words fall from your lips before you can stop them. "I swallowed a balloon of heroin before the trial. That's why I fucked it up."

"Fucking hell, Franky."

"Kim planted them in my cell. If I wanted out, I had no other option."

She looks up to the ceiling, and runs a hand through her hair. "There are always other options."

"Couldn't have you out there waiting for me for the next ten to twelve years," you joke to lessen the tension which has suddenly filled your private room.

"I'm your motivation for parole am I?"

You shrug.

She looks to the door, and back at you again.

"Where will you go when you get out?" she wonders.

"You got a spare bed?" you joke. "Or _a_ bed?"

She purses her lips, trying not to laugh.

"How many prisoners have you picked up, Ms Westfall?"

You know she's biting her tongue to stop that grin. "Just the one."

You're both quiet for a moment. Her thumb passes over the back of your hand.

"Those things you said...at the hearing...about me...I really appreciate it."

She doesn't say anything.

You watch her bite her bottom lip. You remember how it felt beneath your thumb. You remember how she sighed. You remember how she wanted you.

You want to talk about it.

"What do you think Ms Bennett saw that day in the library?"

Her eyes look up and meet yours. "You said she didn't see anything."

"Yeah..." you play, "but what do you think _she thinks_ she saw?"

You want to hear her say it.

"You just want to hear me say it."

You press further back into the pillows smugly.

You run your hand over her ring finger. "Why don't you have a girlfriend?"

She raises an eyebrow. "Sorry, were you under the impression that I'm single?"

You can't contain a smile. "That's cute, Gidge."

She looks to the door again.

"I should go."

She shifts on the bed.

"Wait," you say.

"Mmm?" she hums. That sultry look crosses her face. She's your fucking teenage dream.

"When?" you ask.

"Sorry?" she flirts, playing right into your hand. You've confused her.

"In the library, you said 'not yet'. So I was just wondering, when?"

Her hand shifts from its place on the bed, and suddenly there's pressure and heat high on your thigh.

She's leaning closer and _oh god_ she smells incredible. Expensive. Like leather and rose.

Her breath is warm on your lips for a fraction of a second before her lips are pressed against yours. You'd been expecting it, excited and wanting, and so your lips parted against hers before they touched. Her tongue immediately touches yours. Barely, softly, but fuck it feels incredible. _She_ feels incredible. Bridget knows how to kiss a woman. She gives and takes, and her fingers splay into your hair while your wrists remain bound at your sides. With her other hand, she grasps you thigh lightly. You want nothing more than to hold her waist, run your hands up her back, touch her jaw line. But you can't.

You tilt your head so that your lips find her cheek, and she lets you kiss her hot skin, twice, before she pulls back.

"I should go now," she says softly.

You can't stop the shit-eating grin that takes over your entire face. "Uhuh."

She stands, patting your thigh. "I'll see you soon."

She doesn't offer to leave her number. You want to ask for it.

The cop knocks.

"Where can I..." you start, but he's already in the room. He's watching Bridget, clearly wondering if it's okay to enter.

"Don't worry," she says. She knows you're nervous. That you want to know how to get to her when you're free and ready. "Your release is scheduled for 2pm tomorrow." She smiles, as though that means everything.

With one last look from the cop to you, she's got her leather jacket on and she's gone.

And you're left waiting for the clock to strike two.


End file.
